


Ouroboros

by ingridmatthews



Category: Sherlock Holmes 2009
Genre: Angst, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-07
Updated: 2010-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingridmatthews/pseuds/ingridmatthews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=sherlockkink"><img/></a><a href="http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=sherlockkink"><b>sherlockkink</b></a> fill: <i>During their time in jail after the whole fail!boat incident, some of the male inmates want to take turns with Watson. Holmes has to save his bff by claiming what is rightfully his.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ouroboros

There are four on one side, six on the other. Ten fellow prisoners in total and from their leering stares at Watson, their intention is clear. Three can be disabled by myself, two by Watson, perhaps, considering he is unarmed and exhausted.

The guards are uninterested. Or perhaps I should say they are interested, but in another way.

Watson is oblivious. He drinks water from our shared cup and stares balefully at the bars, blaming me for his troubles. He is thinking about the bad impression he is making on his future in-laws, not realizing that he is two minutes away from a violation that he will not recover from.

Like circling dogs, the inmates shuffle closer. I can smell sweat and cheap tobacco, dried urine and stale clothing.

I have one minute to make a decision.

It's a terrible one, but from the look in their eyes, my choice is being made for me.

With a single quick movement, I grab Watson's arm, right under his bad shoulder and haul him to his feet. He hisses with pain and irritation, trying to yank his arm away. He fails. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Shut up," I order and drag him toward the back area, where there are walls surrounding places that aren't completely open. Poor design, I think, but it is better than here in the middle of the yard.

Furious, Watson pulls away and I kick the calf of his weak leg, hard enough to surprise and keep moving him to the back. His expression is one of horror, as I alone know his weakness outright. "Holmes! Damn you, let me go!"

The inmates - and the guards outside - follow us cautiously. They are surprised at my actions in a dumb animal sort of way and this is precisely what I am counting on. It's hard -- horrible -- but I shove Watson into the wall, face first and when my hand pushes on the back of his neck, holding him like a lamb in the slaughter trough, he starts to fight me in earnest. Cursing and kicking, calling me names and it breaks a part of whatever soul I have left to twist his bad arm behind him, disabling him completely.

The fury fades. Shock and a terrible expression of betrayal line his handsome face. "Holmes, please stop this. Whatever you're doing, please stop."

"I'm merely taking what's mine," I say loudly enough for the brutes to overhear and they take another step closer, their bleary eyes focused on us to the exclusion of everything else. "Be quiet and it'll go easier."

"What will go easier?" he gasps and then it hits him. He's struck silent for a long moment, perhaps remembering that yes, we've done this before, in our apartments, many times by last count. But then there was fighting and unhappiness so we'd stopped, hoping to save our friendship at the very least, until that too wasn't working. He then thought that moving out might ... might ...

"Don't do this," he whispers and he's shaking, his trembling hand reaching back for me, with small pleading pats and tugs on my coat. "Holmes, think."

"I've thought and here's my conclusion," I whisper against his neck.

It's easy to unfasten his pants, I've had practice. I hate this, I hate myself, especially as I'm hard and he's not. I only have saliva to ease my way inside. I bend him as much as possible and force myself in without kindness, making Watson cry out in pain.

The watchers take a step back at my action. Some of them look distressed. The officers outside the gate hurry away, suddenly not quite as interested.

Watson is helpless under me, exhaling violently with every thrust and I close my eyes, trying to get this over with as quickly as possible. I let myself ramble, about how tight he feels and how he'll miss this and that he'll be begging me for more soon enough.

Lies. Maybe. Probably.

I finish with one last, hungry thrust and it's over, for both of us. Watson slides down the wall, making wounded noises. The inmates look at him, then at me, their expressions telling me they are frightened and no longer aroused. One by one they fade away back into the crowd and I wish that the Hell I don't believe in would rise up from below the ground and swallow me whole.

From the look on Watson's face, he's wishing the exact same thing.

I stumble back to the bench. For some reason he comes and sits beside me, looking as if nothing has happened, except for the fine tremors of his hands -- a twitch of his cheek.

His future bride retrieves him. Lestrade retrieves me. I then take a carriage ride to hear about how hell has come home to roost.

xXx

He's home when I arrive at Baker Street. He sits ramrod straight in his chair, perfectly dressed and groomed, his cane over his knees.

There is murder in his eyes.

I turn away from him. I hear the _ssshfft_ of his sword being drawn before feeling its razor edge at my throat. I sway on my feet, wondering if I could just fall into it but Watson's hand stills, then draws away. He cannot kill me outright, even after all I've done and this hurts me more than anything else.

"Why?" he asks, hoarsely. "Tell me why."

"Because if I didn't, they were going to," I reply. I focus on the sword still hovering. I draw it up with my palm, clenching my fingers around it. It bites into the skin and Watson slaps my now-bloody hand away. "There were ten of them. The guards weren't going to stop it. You wouldn't have survived it. It was the only way I could think of to distract them. I'm sorry."

The sword falls away. His hand is on my shoulder then, turning me around. There are tears in his eyes -- there are tears in mine. "I'm sorry," I repeat, over and over, like a tuneless song. "I thought it was better that way. I couldn't let them do that to you. I'm the devil you know, aren't I, Watson?"

"Yes," he rasps and with one word, I am forgiven, for this much at least. He leans his forehead against mine. His breath is wavering hot, his voice thick. He's struggling, as am I. In this moment, we are hopelessly lost. "These things that keep happening because of my presence. I can't stay here, Holmes. I have to leave, the sooner the better."

"I know that."

Lies. Again. Maybe.

"We're going to kill each other. I couldn't live with myself if that should happen."

"I understand."

His arms go around my waist. I return the embrace, burying my face in his chest, listening to his heartbeat. We are linked like the Ouroboros, the snake that eats its own body by the tail, as if it doesn't know that by devouring its other half, it's only killing itself.

I am the head of this snake, he has become the tail. But my Watson no longer wishes to be devoured and thinks that leaving will save us both. He's is _certain_ he can save us.

Cupping his face with my bloody hand, I kiss him. He returns the kiss, but only for a second before pushing me away. "Are we done here?" he asks suddenly. He's very pale. "I have to pack."

"We're done," I reply. I wipe my hand on my sleeve. "I have some things to attend to."

"I'll see you later then."

He leaves me. It seems appropriate. It seems like the only truth we've shared in a very long time.

xXx

end


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